We Are the Tide
by Anti-canon
Summary: A story about how people who once were close can drift apart, and how the ones you love most are often the ones you hurt the worst. (Eastsiders Fusion)
1. Pulsing and Drifting

**A/N: Sooo... I've been wanting to do this story for quite some time, but haven't really wanted to add another WIP to the list of ones that I already finished, but I made a pact with myself: 500 words a day until class starts up again and by then I should actually have gotten something done this summmer, so!**

**Based off the webseries The Eastsiders which I am madly in love with. I am hoping to update a few times a week... we shall see...**

_Stiles_

* * *

You were in love once, you're sure of it.

But lying back to back, silent in the dark, careful not to touch, you're all too certain that it's gone. It came slow and subtle, like affection was supposed to. And maybe that's why this all has happened, maybe this is what you deserve for doing it all so ass-backwards. You'd read too many books, seen too many movies, truly believed that great sex could and would turn into a greater love. It felt like it had, hadn't it? You'd put your tongue up his ass the first date, but it took months to hold his hand, and when you finally did, he'd smiled and squeezed back.

What else were you supposed to believe?

It didn't feel like withering, didn't feel like drying up, crumbling to the ground, blowing away. But somehow, now, when he so much as grips your shoulder— you flinch, feel ill. And you see that it hurts, somewhere there's still enough inside him that it hurts, but it doesn't change what he's done—what he's doing, and how sick it makes you feel. The worst part is that you don't even blame him, not really. You… understand, and so you allow it.

But you can't keep going on like this. It'll kill the both of you. You're tired all the time, you never eat, he never smiles. The house is always quiet, waiting for the tension to snap. You want it to, you're desperate for it. At this point, you're no longer afraid, no longer sad, no longer angry, you're just ready for it to be done. You think it might kill you, like the snap of a piano wire that catches your neck, draining what's left and leaving an empty husk behind. But anything is better than this. _Anything_.

Neither of you are asleep, but you're both pretending to be—shallow breaths, careful movement, shuttered eyes. When did it get so hard to talk to him? Used to talk about everything, argue about everything, be interested in everything. Now you can't even comment on the fucking weather. You remember the first time you saw him—so unerringly beautiful and perfect— it was like staring at the sun, and somehow that made up for the things he called you, the way he treated you that night. You hadn't known back then it was his first and only defense, but you hadn't cared.

You wish he'd go back to that, would spit fire and venom, whether he meant it or not. These sober smiles and careful conversations are nothing like the him you used to know and it makes it so much worse. You want him to be angry, you want him to be sweet, you want him to be anything but this absence—this black hole absorbing everything and reflecting nothing.

You can't stand to be around him, and yet you miss him all the time. You wonder if he misses you. You wonder if he is itching to talk, touch, remember. You wonder if he isn't. You wonder if _he_ is giving Jackson all that he needs, if they're making new memories together—exploring, tasting, learning. You wonder if _he'_s interesting, if _he'_s attractive, if _he'_s rich, if _he_'s got a bigger cock, a bigger house, a bigger heart.

It's all you can think about.

It's all consuming.

It's killing you from the inside out.

Are they in love?

Like you used to be.


	2. The Hurt That I Owe

_Jackson_

* * *

You don't know when you became this kind of person.

You suppose it must have happened gradually— having made dozens of little compromises to your own sense of principles, small slips and exceptions that didn't seem like much at the time, until, somehow you ended up here. It's so beyond anything you would have ever thought yourself capable of doing. Sure, you always talked a big game, acted the shit, made anyone who wanted close work for it. But being here— in bed with a man that is most certainly not your live-in boyfriend of the past year and a half? It all feels like it came on in a rush, like the day you saw him, a switch flipped, and you became… this.

It never feels wrong in the moment, his teeth dragging across your throat, his hands clamped tightly across your wrists, his want and need so crystal clear it makes you dizzy with pleasure. It makes you feel so… present, so in touch with yourself and your place in the world. You don't even really like him…. you're pretty sure he actively hates you, but the way you make each other _feel. _It's enough, and it's so much more than you can remember having for so long.

He… he gives you something to be excited for, to work towards, to accomplish. Every time you find yourself between Derek's thighs, it's rapturous, and when you feel like you're fading most days, that's something you'll give anything for. Coming home to Stiles afterwards, seeing his eyes pick up on the clearly rumpled clothes, the prominent bruises, the heavy scent of it, makes you sick. But lately, it's been more with anger than with anything else.

He confronted you the first time, when it was all just speculation on his part, when you hadn't been trying to get caught, when you were just fucking club boys to try and feel. He'd cried, you'd screamed, and even then you'd _wanted _him to hit you, to prove that you were worth fighting for. Crazy? Maybe. But it's what you'd needed, and in the end, it's what he couldn't deliver. Two weeks later he'd given you the keys to a new apartment, and it felt like a knife between your ribs.

You've been slowly bleeding out ever since.

You deserve more. He deserves more. But you're too afraid to let go. You know Stiles, and he knows you—probably more than anyone else in this world. He understands you and accepts you for what you are— even loved you for it once upon a time. What if you never trust anyone like that again? What if this is you just throwing away the best thing you ever had? What if this breaks him?

You could never forgive yourself.

"You need to tell him." Your heart skips a beat when you remember where you are, and turning your head to the side, you see Derek sauntering towards the stairs, where the last of both your clothes are strewn along the handrail. He pulls on a pair of pale pink briefs before leaning against the wall and turning to face you, arms crossed. "You're always a million miles away, why even bother coming here at all?"

Suddenly self-conscious, you want nothing more than to pull the sheets over yourself, ask him to leave, wash all this away, and sleep until the sick taste of guilt leaves your mouth…. You move to the corner of the bed, sit with your legs spread wide, arms behind your back to prop you up. "He's not any of your business, and last time I checked you came so hard you cried… So stick a cork in it." The small thrill you get when he looks away, fidgets his shoulders, and declines to answer, only lasts a moment. Being alienated here, in his place, has you on edge and bristling.

"You think I give a fuck if you're married or not—"

"He's just a boyfriend."

Derek stares back at you, eyes cold as steel, brows drawn. "—I don't. If you're okay with it, I'm okay with it. I just get the feeling he isn't…. and no one deserves that." He looks down and away again, and after a moment, starts heading down the stairs. "You need to tell him."


	3. I Buried a Bone

**A/N: This one has not been proofread because I am a lazy asshat. I apologize immensely in advance. :P **

* * *

_Isaac_

* * *

You can't go back out there.

You know that he's waiting, just on the other side of the door, most likely with a smile that's too sweet, eyes that are too understanding, arms that are welcoming when they shouldn't be. You heard him get up to make coffee and immediately fled to the bathroom, cranking on the shower while staring yourself down in the mirror and trying your college best to not hyperventilate.

This isn't how these are supposed to go. He's supposed to pretend to sleep until it's inappropriate for you to stay and so you 'sneak' around gathering your clothes and once out the door, spend twenty minutes trying to figure out where the hell you are so you can figure out how the hell to get to Stiles' and make sure he made it through the night too. You're not this kind of guy. You don't hook-up with these kinds of boys. Nice isn't your thing.

How did you manage to end up here? You're usually so careful. No one with pets (able to commit long term, caring), no one with a drink limit (controlled, self-conscious, determined), and most definitely no one with a crooked jaw, dopey smile, and big brown eyes (a somewhat devastating combo as it turns out). You remember seeing him from across the room, lounging on a hideous green sofa, drinking something electric blue, and either not noticing or caring that it had similarly stained his lips. You'd thought he was cute, of course, but not so much as to find him hard to sling over the arm of said couch and fuck into oblivion… which can sometimes be a problem.

But he'd been surrounded by a gaggle of brightly dressed girls which meant he was either taken, about to be, or most definitely the kind of boy that you should be avoiding, the kind writes thank you cards and brushes his teeth before going to bed and has a stable job and sends flowers to your not-so-stable one. In short, a boyfriend.

You can't have a boyfriend.

You aren't good for them and they're not good for you. You're not… capable of being what they want or need, and the vast majority of them simply can't keep up with the contradictions that dictate your own. You take deep breaths, shake off the nausea, step into the water, and muffle a scream. It's much too hot, a raw red spreading across your shoulders and chest, but you grit your teeth and take it.

You're going to have to go out there and tell him, have to watch his face fall and his eyes shutter and his smile fade. You'll have to stand there awkwardly as you watch him review the past night in his head, try and find out what he did wrong, when it was absolutely nothing. You're going to have to watch him be infected with doubt, made sick with it, and know that it was you that did it. You are going to be personally responsible for dimming his light, at least for a little while.

You slowly crumple to the floor and press your forehead to the cool tile, closing your eyes and trying to swallow past the panic in your throat. You wish you hadn't drunk as much, wish you could remember what else had happened last night, wish Stiles was here to make it all better—even if that was just by reminding you that things could be much worse. He's your prime example for why you don't date, your main piece of evidence in the case against relationships.

The nicest, most deserving man you know, stuck in a loveless relationship, too afraid to break it off, too unhappy to function, too far gone to really help. All you can do is watch and listen and hope that when it all implodes, he'll survive the fallout. You wouldn't wish it on anyone, and refuse to condemn yourself to the same thing.

Because you know that you don't have the strength to make it out alive.


	4. Lost in an Hour

**A/N: Things are gonna start getting messy. And this is not me manipulating canon for my own, greedy shipper needs. :P This is really how it goes. More or less.**

* * *

_Derek_

* * *

You don't know what possesses you to do it.

You don't really think about it, but once Jackson's in the shower, you're up and across the room, rifling through his pockets and then scrolling through his phone. You try and focus on the sound of the water, keep glancing at the shut door every few seconds, breath short, muscles tense, as you shuffle through dozens of photos of the two of them—eating, sleeping, kissing—proud and happy and uninhibited. Abruptly they start to peter off, trickling down into almost nothing the past few months, being replaced with foreign cityscapes, foreign people, foreign lives, and you feel guilt, wicked and sharp, knowing that you're the reason that happy kid is gone from them, isn't so happy anymore.

Putting a face to the idea of _the_ significant other was a mistake, but now that you've started, you can't stop. You go through the contacts, find a name (Stiles) and a home and work number. You dash over to your desk across the window, scour the drawers for a pencil and paper, and get it all down, crumpling the information and hiding it in the wastebin. You know that it's paranoid, but you don't care.

By the time the door opens, steam pouring out the opening, Jackson barely gives you a second glance, gathering his clothes, stuffing them into a "gym bag" and letting himself out. You lie in bed for over an hour turning the name over and over on your tongue, the images in your mind, the guilt in your stomach. You feel adrift at sea, and when you feel like you're going to be overwhelmed, dragged under and drowned, your grab the slip of paper, your keys, and head out the door.

When you called, you were surprised to find he works at a gallery of all things. It fleshes him out even more, gives him interests and aspirations and inclinations. You wonder if he's talented. You wonder if he went to school for it, somewhere in a big city. You wonder if that's where they met, flirted, fell in love.

You're parked in front of the building before you even realize you made the decision, and after sitting with the engine idling for something like ten minutes, you turn off the ignition and saunter inside. You're irrationally afraid of being caught, even though you're sure that he doesn't know what you look like, that you even exist. The space is wide and open, full of natural light and negative space. It makes you feel vulnerable, like you just walked into a trap, and you have to physically force yourself not to tense up.

He's the only one in the room—behind a desk against a wall, halfway down the space, distractedly chewing on a spare pen cap and staring blankly at the laptop screen in front of him. You freeze in your tracks when his eyes flick up to meet yours, and all the air in your lungs disappears. The first thing you think… is that he's beautiful. Upturned nose, cupid-bow lips, scattered moles, warm eyes, soft hair—you want to smile at him, play with the cuff of his sleeve, nuzzle at his exposed collar bone, nip at the shell of his ear.

You are hit with the overwhelming need to touch and taste and _know _and after the excited thrill wears away, you are only left with shame. You should leave. Clearly there's something wrong with you, something fundamentally fucked in your basic wiring and you should let these poor people be. You should turn right around, never look back, never think about it—him again, but you don't. He quirks an eyebrow when you've been staring for too long, squints when you continue to, and just when he's about to say something, you turn to the display on the wall behind him, and try your best to casually browse.

It's filled with a mixture of manipulated photos and drawings that are crude in a clearly practiced way. They're all a little odd, off in some way or another, making them just uncomfortable enough to be genuinely curious and interesting. In one of the photos, a suited man stands in front of a wall of windows—outside them crashing waves and a woman in a wedding gown atop their crest, all black and white. Next to it, a decidedly more colorful drawing—greens, blues and pinks—a boy stands in the foreground, heavy coat, steamed breath, expression afraid. The people behind him are fading away into the snow covered city.

You get lost in them, in their stories, in a world that, for once, makes sense. To you, this is real life. It's not like in the movies—following established rules, heroes and villains clearly defined, a purpose and intent behind every action and word. It's weird. It's sometimes hard to understand. It's sometimes beautiful and sometimes terrible and so very often, both, at the exact same time.

You don't even realize you've reached the end until you bump into Stiles' desk and awkwardly fidget as he looks you over. "Can I…. help you with something?" His fingers twiddle nervously on the edge of the wood, and you imagine them skirting across your jaw, pinching at your waist, buried deep between your legs. You clear your throat and shift your weight before making a snap decision and placing your wallet on the desk.

"I want to buy one of these." The words seem to go over his head at first, before his eyes narrow with suspicion again and he glances between you and the wall several times. He scratches at his head and licks his lips before deciding to focus on you.

"No you don't." He says it, like he's letting you in on common knowledge, like you said something foolish and he's sparing you further embarrassment. "Those—those are mine. They're only up because I work here… They're not even real art." He believes every word that he speaks, and doesn't seem particularly affected by it, but in the same way that you grow used to a chronic ache. He says it like he's trying to convince you not to take up smoking—serious, concerned, certain.

You frown at him, huff out a laugh, and turn back to the wall, walking down its length, and pulling down four different frames. You set them all carefully down in front of him, and stare him down. "I want to buy these. All four."

His eyes widen and he licks his lips again—a nervous habit apparently—and just shakes his head. "I… I don't need your pity or anything." His smile is a little sad, but he looks you right in the eyes, and stands from his chair. "I know it's nothing magnificent or ground-breaking or thought-provoking, but I like it and I'm proud of it, and I don't care."

You make a note of looking at his name tag, make sure he notices before saying, "Stiles, right?" He nods and flexes his fingers, doesn't back down. "My name is Derek, and I couldn't think of anything better to hang around my house. _I _like it too, and I don't care if you don't believe me." He swallows thickly, nods, sits back down, and rings you up without another word.

When he hands you the receipt, he smiles shakily, sheepishly, and utters a quiet thank you. You let your fingers drag across the inside of his arm when you take it, smile small and genuine, like you almost never do, and thank him right back.

When you're back at home, his art hidden beneath your bed, you feel like going to sleep, for a long, long time.


	5. One of us is Going to Suffer

**A/N: Hot Tip: All the chapter titles are stolen and paraphrased from Blind Pilot songs. Mostly from their 3 Rounds and a Sound album. You should listen while reading to set the right mood. :P**

* * *

_Scott_

* * *

"It's not morbid, it's romantic."

You smile at him, even as he looks at you like there's a screw loose somewhere deep inside. You twirl a rogue curl around your finger and laugh, kicking at his shins beneath the sheets. "You can't really believe that." He turns away from you to pull on a pair of peach cotton panties and cut-off denim shorts.

"I can't believe I'm dating a hipster. I mean, really, where do you even get your clothes?" He wrestles on a black and white striped sweater that falls off his shoulders and tucks his hair beneath a knit hat. Such a shame. He gives you a look—the one that always follows any sort of affection, and steps into his moccasins. "Don't go." You drag it out, put at him, pull your best pair of puppy-dog eyes. "C'mon we only just finished! I promise, I won't talk about cancer or shaving heads or granite bench grave markers anymore. Scout's honor." You cross your heart and climb out of bed, tugging on his shirt and rolling your hips against his.

"I can't. Stiles has the afternoon off and I promised I'd take him out to lunch." He squirms away from you, surprisingly practiced in his escape, and frowns in a way that's probably supposed to be apologetic, but completely misses the mark.

"Then take me with you. He's your best friend and I haven't even met him yet! You spend more time with him than me, I should at least get to be introduced." You scramble to the other side of the bed and start to dress as quick as you can manage, putting your briefs on backwards, but not caring as he starts to back away. "I'll just brush my teeth and put on some deodorant. He won't even be able to tell that we—you know." You hop across the room, hoisting up your pants.

"Umm…. I don't know if that's such a good idea." He looks pointedly out the glass doors behind you and scratches at the back of his head. "He's been going through some pretty major stuff lately and I don't think that he'd appreciate me bringing a stranger—"

"But I'm not a stranger." You stop in your mad dash to get ready and force him to catch your eye, stepping into his space and holding his chin between your fingers. "I'm your boyfriend." You kiss him, once, twice, right on the lips and smile, small. "I mean… you've talked about me, right? We've been going out for weeks." He doesn't say anything, doesn't move, doesn't even seem to breathe. "Isaac?"

He pushes you away and chews at his lip. "Look, I just—I want to keep this separate okay? For right now?" He looks at you like he's scared of what you might say, of what you might do. It hurts. "His relationship, it's about to fucking go super nova and I can't—" You sit on the edge of the bed, run your hands through your hair, and try to just listen. "I need to compartmentalize. I can't process the death of something and the start of another in the same space. It's too much."

"No—ya, I get it." You nod quickly, and swallow hard, trying to smile. "I do, I really do, and if that's what you need…" You play with the soiled sheets for a minute, make sure with yourself before you promise something you might not be able to deliver. "I can do that for you. I can _be _that for you… As long as you promise it's not forever." You look at him, really look at him, not caring for once, how it makes him fidget.

"I don't plan on it being forever."


	6. Before You Knew You Knew Me

**A/N: That's right folks, a double posting just special for you! Mostly as an apology for not keeping up with this the way that I wanted to. D: As per usual, life got in the way, and I just couldn't keep the pace. But I won't be leaving this by the wayside anytime soon, so don't worry! Things are about to get cray.**

* * *

_Derek_

* * *

"I know you."

He whispers it softly, like a condemnation, and it's the worst thing he could say. He's not mad. He's not confused. He's not even particularly sad. He's…. resigned. And it makes you sick. He closes his eyes, tries to breathe, hiccups and whimpers instead, turns and turns in place. He breezes straight past you, goes to the kitchen sink, and vomits.

He doesn't raise his head from the porcelain, doesn't make any more sounds, just slumps, like he's lost the will. You close your eyes, swallow hard, and close the door. You search for a shirt, find one between the couch cushions, and shrug it on before padding over to the kitchen space. You pull up a stool, pull at your sleeves, wait.

Outside the mail truck stops and starts as it goes down the street—a constant whir and creak—dogs bark, and your screen door bounces on its hinge with the wind. Every time you shift your weight, the wood groans, you wince, he flinches. You wonder how he found out, if he always knew, why he decided to come, if Jackson knows. You feel…. relieved more than anything. You still feel like shit, still want to throw yourself down the crooked stairs fifteen feet away, but it's better than what you had been holding in.

Your phone vibrates in your pocket and you fight to find it in the loose fabric, struggling to find the pocket in the billowy folds, before you wrench it free. Cora's name and face blink back at you and though you wish, more than anything else, that you could use this as an out call, you hit ignore, and set the device down with a grimace. He's looking at you now, eyes rimmed red, nose pink, skin pale.

"I can wait." He croaks, throat protesting at the sound. You look down at your lap and then back up, shaking your head. Honestly you should save everyone the time and just get 'Fuck Up' tattooed in block letters across your brow. He snorts, meanly, and walks over to the couch, sitting on the arm before falling back and staying again.

You stand, rinse the vomit out of the sink, get a glass of water, and hand it to him. For a long while he just stares at it, but you keep your arm outstretched, and just as it's starting to get tired, he takes it from you, and gulps the whole thing down. He scrubs at his head, his face—so hard it leaves ugly, raw marks. "I wanted to tell you." It's the wrong thing to say. Hell, anything is probably the wrong thing to say, but you can't keep it from spilling out your mouth. "That day at the gallery, I meant to tell you, but…" You wring your hands, look away.

"I knew." He's quitter still, looking at you through the empty glass in his hands, feet fidgeting. "I didn't know it was you… but I knew there was someone." He sits it down on the coffee table, seems to take a minute to consider, and then stares you straight in the eye "You're not his first. I was hoping…. I was hoping this time it was more than just a fuck." A few tears roll free and he blinks them away, wiping at his nose. "I was hoping that it meant something. Does it? Do you love him? Am I—are you worth it?"

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. This isn't how it was supposed to happen. He was supposed to storm in, supposed to punch you out, supposed to try and make you feel like shit and fail. He was supposed to find you heartless and cold. It was supposed to be easy. A good lay. No feelings. No attachment. You played your cards wrong again and ended up on the losing end. Because you wish you could tell him that you and Jackson are soul mates, that all this pain was for something, some great, cosmic cause, not a quick cum. You desperately wish to alleviate him of this burden, and yet, as the silence stretched, you know that he's got it all figured out.

"Right, right." He nods, harsh, and sits up. "Take him." He claps his hands together and laughs, cold and empty. "I'll be at the gallery at four. Tell him to come and get his fucking things. I don't care if he stays here or stays on the streets, but he will _not _sleep in my house." He stands and smiles at you—lips quivering, but a determined grit to his jaw. "Burn my art, lose my number, forget my face." It's not forceful, it's not heated, and it's not to be questioned. He turns on his heel and heads for the exit.

"I can't." He stops in the doorway, looks back at you, and leaves.


	7. I Didn't Know I Wasn't Invincible

**A/N: Just a few things this time:**

**1. I never proofread. I'm sorry. I just don't. And my beta's always leave me, so. :P **  
**2. Why aren't you listening to Blind Pilot? Do it now!**  
**3. I refuse to give up on this fic. I don't care if there's only a handful of people reading it. I love y'all too much. I love this story too much.**

**4. I chickened out on the Stiles/Chris. In Eastsiders the relationship turns rather explicit. If any of you are highly disappointed in this, lemme know and I'm sure we can work something out. ;)**

**That's all.**

* * *

_Stiles_

* * *

You can't help that it feels like mourning.

Sure, you're already through three or four of the stages, but that doesn't change how empty the house feels, how there's memories of him left like soot stains in every room, on every wall. You rent a steam cleaner and wash each one. You paint them, make new pictures to cover them up, take a sledge hammer to one you guess isn't load-baring. It doesn't help. It still feels like a mausoleum, but in a sick twist of fate, you're the one left to haunt it.

After all, he's the one that got set free, to his new boy, his new future, his new life. You're the one drowning in the memories of what was, surrounded— swallowed by them. You're the one who's been passing out drunk in the halls, wrapped up in a comforter that stinks of sour sweat…. You're the one who didn't make it out alive.

Isaac comes by, every night at first, and then less and less. He's got shit of his own to deal with, shit you don't have the capacity to care for at the moment. He was forgiving for a while, but you both knew, from the beginning, that he wasn't going to get dragged in the mire, that although you had given in to the fate of it all, he wasn't going to go down like that, not even for you. So you let him go, and somehow you were happy. He's stronger than you, smarter too.

You only make it back to work because your dad threatens to fly out, to come and pity you, try and nurse you back to health like a wounded animal. Honestly, you're more of a horse with a shattered leg than a bird with a broken wing. Two barrels straight to the face.

But you don't want to pull him into it, can't stand to think of the way he'd look, the things he's say, what he'd think. He'd play the blame game, and he always wins. So you get out of your sweats, shower, stagger to the gallery, slump behind the desk. Chris comes in every so often, rubs a hand along your shoulder, down your back, looks you in the eye.

You don't have the energy to discourage it, and so you don't. Sometimes you think you could sink into it, lose yourself there, forget who and what you were, die a real death and live on as something else—a copied image of yourself. Sometimes, the way he takes care of you, the way he acts like he could make life so much simpler, it's all that you want. The only thing that stops it from happening is the catch of his wedding ring on your belt loops, the picture of his daughter that takes up the main wall.

And even then—

Jackson doesn't come back, doesn't even call…. Derek doesn't either. You don't know what it means that you've paid notice. You try not to think on it.

You can't focus on any one thing, not for long, and it makes each day seem endless and over in a second at the same time. You measure their passage in instances—the time you threw up in your own hands, desperate not to get any on the pillows that still smelled of him, the time you saw Isaac across the street and neither of you waved the other down, the time you came to images of the two of them together, in the shower, and cried about it for hours.

You feel set adrift.

You're lost in it.

You don't know how to get back.

You just want it to end—no matter how.


	8. How I Left You

**A/N: I didn't abandon this, I swear! I just got really caught up in another project for a while. :P Sorry! I have serious issues staying focused on any one thing for a long period of time, as my recurring readers surely know. But I'm keeping with this 1000%**

**AND! We're getting out of the angst forest soon, I swear! This is the chapter that's gonna mark a change in narrative (I hope) from the spiral down. We hit the ground, splat, and now it's time to work back up. ^^**

**Not proofread, as per usual. I can't keep a beta to save me, and I can't be assed to do it myself, so. :P**

_Jackson_

* * *

You hate his house.

It's all grimy windows, faded, splintered wood, and awkward, cramped angles. Typical of some rent controlled east side piece of shit. Tucked away behind an alley, there's always trucks and drunks and trucks full of drunks passing by outside, at all times of day. The light always seems filtered and musty, like an attic, and nothing's in the right place.

The couch faces one of the many floor-to-ceiling windows, forcing you to watch the passersby ogle at you along their way. The pantry is about ten inches away from the toilet and only ever filled with wheat grass this and whole grain that. You never thought you'd miss gluten this much. The worst though—the absolute worst—is his bed. It's too small, too lumpy, faces the morning sun, is low to the floor, is below a ceiling fan that creaks as it spins. It's not comfortable, it's not familiar. It's not yours, and he's not your boyfriend.

He doesn't wake you to tell you he's leaving. He doesn't ask when you'll be home and what you'd like to do. He never cooks for two or begrudgingly shares leftovers. He doesn't know that you prefer baths—doesn't even own a tub—and doesn't ask. Derek told you he wasn't looking for a relationship, and it's clear he still means it. Whether he'd be better or worse by it if he was actually trying, you're not sure, but it's hard not to be around someone who's at least trying.

Because even when he hated your guts, Stiles still wanted you around, still absentmindedly reached for your hand, recorded your favorite shows, remembered that you were allergic to melons and tucked aspirins into your pocket the morning of a hangover. You know that you don't have any right, but you miss him, you miss what the two of you used to be.

You haven't had sex since it happened.

It should be weirder, it should be more awkward, the both of you should feel liberated by it. Instead all this free time is populated by avoiding conversations and each other's stares. Derek's sister, Cora, comes over all the time—lives on campus just a half hour away. She so clearly doesn't like you—never calls you the right name, ignores your questions, and whisks Derek away to talk in the loft, sitting cross-legged on the mattress and speaking in hushed French. They'll go at it for hours, so purposefully leaving you out, but you refuse to leave, to give them the satisfaction.

And that's just Cora. His older sister Laura lives up in Quebec— a high profile business woman, or so you believe you've been able to glean from the rare snippets of English. She calls every other night and you can hear her yelling into the receiver. She's asked to speak to you directly a few times, always leaves open-ended threats and tells you she has eyes and ears everywhere. Unlike Cora, she seems to accept the fact that, at least for now, you're here, you're with Derek in some kind of capacity, and respects his decisions. For that you're grateful and when you say as much she usually freezes mid-tirade before changing the subject.

Stiles doesn't call and neither do you. As much as you find yourself wishing you could just see him, just hear his voice, hold his hand, you stay back. You chose this. You know you did, actively made the decision after going through a list of all the ramifications, and though you didn't know it would really be this bad, you don't deny the fault. But you wonder about him constantly—if he misses you, if he's thrown himself into his work or into a drink, if he's picked up a rebound guy, if he's walked by this house at night, only just keeping himself from knocking.

You think about calling Isaac. He always distrusted you, but he recognized that, at least at one point, you made Stiles happy, and that was enough to keep things polite, to include you and make you feel at home. He'd know when, if ever, it was okay for you to come around, to try and find some kind of peace and closure. Because the both of you deserve so much more than this cold cut, this bullshit fade to black.

In the end, that's all you do. For once, all you can manage is to contemplate, to sit on your ass and think about the possibilities without testing a single one. You wish that this inability had come around sooner, that you had been a good sort of man and had only looked and never touched. As per usual, you never perform when it actually counts, and fuck up the chance to do what's right.

Unlike Stiles and Derek, you don't have anyone to turn to though, no one that would sit with you in your own filth and despair for days on end, just to be there and to listen. You have friends who want to take you clubbing, who try to get in your pants and your wallet. You have friends that offer to get you drunk, to take you to their fucking ski chalet, that buy you new leather jackets and expect you then to be grateful and happy and over it.

No one wants to sit with you on a grungy mattress, drinking coke and rum in the middle of the day, watching daytime television while laughing too loud, crying too soft, and asking hard, hard questions. That was what Stiles used to do for you—what Isaac does for him, apparently what even Derek has Cora for. And you threw it away.

You got confused and overwhelmed and scared and entitled and bored and angry and horny and stupid and you traded it in. For clarity. For knowing. For being able to pick and point and say for absolutely sure that you loved him, that leaving was a mistake, that whatever you had, has died. You know it all now, can see everything that you wanted to, don't have to agonize over the what-if's. You are painfully aware of what's going on in your life and where you stand.

You wish that you didn't.


End file.
